You Should See Me in a Crown(71)
When she rolls her eyes, it’s affectionate, tender.
I look at my mom’s dress where it rests on the form. It looks every bit as good now as it did when she went to prom, if the picture of her in it that sits on top of the TV stand is anything to go by. She was so gorgeous. Slightly taller than me, confident, secure in the fact that she deserved to take up space in Campbell. Deserved to take up space anywhere.
The dress reminds me of her: elegant, beautiful, classic. It’s a floor-length violet velvet slip dress, with a low back and spaghetti straps.
Robbie asks, “Who’s Winona Ryder?” at the same time I say, “What was she like?”
“Like, on the day of prom,” I add, ignoring Robbie completely because honestly how has he not seen Stranger Things by now? “Do you remember what she was like on prom night? Was she nervous?”
I sit down on the arm of the couch, and Granny looks over at me. She lets out a breath and puts her hands on her hips again with a smile. Her default pose.
“She was excited. Your mama was a real social butterfly, you know. Went with a couple of her girlfriends. She really wanted the full high school experience, even though she spent so much time … Even though she wasn’t always able to go to school.”
Robbie rests his head on my thigh then, and I rub his shoulder.
“She would have found a way to be in the back of the room tonight when you got up on that stage, I know that much,” Granny says, turning back to the dress and speaking again through a pin between her teeth. “So let’s give ’em a show, huh? For your mama.”
By the time Granny is done with me, I see what she means by the resemblance between me and my mom. Granny and I did my makeup together, with the help of some YouTube beauty gurus. It’s a simple beat, natural and dewy—compliments of Jackie Aina. My hair is down, but thanks to the deep condition I did this afternoon and the roller set afterward, my hair falls in not-quite-straight but not-entirely-curly waves over my shoulder on one side, and it’s pinned up by a beautiful faux-diamond clip on the other. I look like a movie star in her dress—even this updated and altered version—and with the smile on my face as I look in the mirror, I do look like her.
The next half hour happens like a series of snapshots. Like a poorly edited family video from the ’90s—all jump cuts, no B-roll.
Robbie does a Campbell Confidential live of Granny and Grandad taking pictures of me on their ancient flip phones—Grandad complaining that “All this technology don’t make no type of sense!” before walking to the kitchen and coming back with a disposable camera from who knows where. I’m reluctantly posing in the middle of the room, and suddenly the doorbell is ringing and we all go silent, because this is the moment. This is the big reveal.
And Granny says, “Well, are you gon’ let the poor girl inside or are you gon’ stand there like a mule looking at a grass sack?”
And Robbie is laughing, and I’m reaching for his phone to end the video and then Amanda is there. Right in front of me, standing in the doorway.
Amanda’s dress has a floor-length black skirt with a high waist that cinches in right under her bra line. But the top half is the part that reminds me who I’m going to prom with, the girl whose style can’t help but push Campbell past its comfort zone and out of its antiquated ways. The white top is sleeveless with ruffles down the front, the neckline a high Victorian, adorned with a black bow tied in the center, the ribbon left long and draping.
She looks equal parts Downton Abbey and Janelle Monáe, and I love every bit of it.
“I didn’t think you could look any more beautiful than you did the night of our first date,” she says quietly. So quietly, in fact, that I know Robbie can’t even hear, despite how hard he’s eavesdropping but pretending not to from the couch. “But then you showed up to the party in that black dress, and now … now this.” She grabs my hand and smiles that smile that she only ever smiles for me. “You are constantly reminding me how ridiculous it is that I got lucky enough to be your date.”
And I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, and my granny calls out to us. “Well, come on in here, girl! I’d like to know who has my granddaughter smiling all the time and forgetting to tell me about altering her prom dress.”
Amanda is blushing as she steps into my house for the first time. Her face is red as she extends a hand to my grandparents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lighty, it’s nice to meet you.”
Grandad is the first to speak, but he lets out a loud cackle first. “Elizabeth, you got this poor girl so scared, even I can see her shaking in her shoes!”
Granny softens considerably. I never thought she’d be one of those have-her-home-by-curfew types, but then again, I never imagined this moment at all. Two months ago, this all seemed impossible.
“Take a breath, baby. I’m not going to hurt you,” Granny says. Amanda shakes her hand and offers a tentative smile. “But I might think about it if y’all don’t exchange them little corsages and get on out of here.”
And so we do. They’re identical, little bundles of white orchids with sprigs of lavender interspersed throughout. Even if we couldn’t buy tickets as a couple, even though we technically can’t hold hands or kiss or dance too close once we get there, there’s no mistaking that we’re together. And that small act of resistance feels good to me.